


Ardour and Abjection

by Mouse9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2018 Twelve Days of Sherlolly, F/M, Sherlolly Secret Santa 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-09-28 07:12:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17178287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mouse9/pseuds/Mouse9
Summary: It's Sherlock's 40th birthday and Molly wants to make it a surprise that Sherlock will remember for a while.She enlists the help of Mycroft and when Sherlock discovers them together, it almost becomes the birthday that wasn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mellovesall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellovesall/gifts).



Sherlock paced around the sitting room of Baker Street, from the couch to the fireplace and back marking a well-worn path with his bare feet.  His hands dug into his hair, pulling and tugging as his mind raced with a thousand different possibilities of what he’d seen, what he’d heard.    
  
It was impossible.    
  
_ Nothing is impossible _ . The voice that sounded frustratingly like his brother whispered in his head.   
  
It has to be a coincidence.   
_   
_ __ What have we said about coincidences, Sherlock?   
  
With a tormented growl, Sherlock’s hands fell from his hair to scrape against his face.  His eyes, rimmed red from lack of sleep, blinked rapidly, pulling up reasons only to discard them equally fast.    
  
There was nothing for it.  All logical conclusions led back to one thing:  his Molly, his life, his sanity, his reason, his heart, was unfaithful.    
  
With, of all people, Mycroft.   
  


* * *

  
  
  
****  
Three Weeks Earlier:  
  
  
  
Mycroft Holmes sat in his chair in his office stoic as always, watching his brother’s…goldfish pace the floor, hands flying about the place. 

 

_ Spent extra time before coming here to cuddle with her cat.   _

_ Brother mine is frustrating her again.   _

_ Bakes scones this morning.  _

_ Needs my assistance with something regarding Sherlock. _   
  
Goldfish wasn’t fair.  Molly Hooper was more than a goldfish.  She’d been a constant in Sherlock’s life for years, even before John Watson.  Even during John Watson. She put up, dealt with more things regarding his little brother than even John Watson was willing to do.   
  
And after seven long years, her patience had finally been rewarded.   
  
_ That wasn’t accurate _ ,  Mycroft amended with a quiet sigh watching her turn and pace once more before finally coming to sit in the chair in front of his desk, wide brown eyes imploring with him for help.  Sherlock had been rewarded. After getting his proverbial head out of his proverbial arse, he’d finally admitted that yes, he had emotions and yes, a great many of them were positively directed at the steadfast pathologist.    
  
The same steadfast pathologist who had now come to him for help for his brother’s upcoming birthday.   
  
“Forty is big Mycroft. It needs to be something grand.  Something Sherlock would love.” She insisted, her own features set with a frown.  “I was thinking a scavenger hunt. Which is why I need your help. Any puzzles or clues I come up with, he’ll easily figure out and know what’s up.  I need someone more clever than me. Someone who can out-Sherlock Sherlock.”   
  
An eyebrow rose.  Her opening statements were accurate. Sherlock would easily deduce any little clues she could think up.  Plus, he mused, if assistance was given by him perhaps she would reward him with some of her desserts.

“What were you thinking?”  he asked blandly, not giving away his position in this skirmish.    
  
“There is a place in East London called the Viktor Wynd Museum or Last Tuesday Society Shop that Sherlock likes to visit.  Or at least, he liked to when he was in Uni, so he told me. I spoke with the curator and there’s a little café upstairs that he’s willing to close for a party.”  She pulled out a file from her bag and placed it on his desk.    
  
“I thought little clues that could lead him to this shop, all centred around items from the shop.”  She chuckled a little. “Which, oddly, coincide with cases he’s had. I’ve gone through John’s blog and found more than a few links. They’re in the folder.  My problem isn’t with the research, it’s with the implementation.”    
  
Leaning forward, she focused on Mycroft.  He didn’t move, to move would be to give away the game, but he did find Miss Hooper to be…disconcerting when she had a single-minded focus.   
  
“Like I said.  I need someone who can out-Sherlock Sherlock.  That person is absolutely not me. And if I even attempt to try to send him on a merry chase, it’ll be over before it begins.  That’s where I need your help Mycroft.”   
  
“And what do I get out of this little…venture?”   
  
Brown eyes blinked at him.    
  
“What do you want?”   
  
Now he smiled.  To be offered carte blanche by Molly Hooper, this was something he had patiently waited for.  The Doctor’s reach to certain parts of London and its inhabitants outstripped even Sherlock’s.  The woman was a cavalcade of uncollected favours owed to her. Especially one in particular that he’d been trying to reach for some time now.   
  
Molly, seeming to know she’d walked into a trap, sighed in acquiescence.  “Help me with this and I’ll owe you one favour. A big one. No questions asked.”   
  
“Done.”  He grinned at her as he folded his hands together, sharp, biting, the look of a man who knew he’d won. He pulled the folder towards him.  “Now, let’s see what ideas you’ve come up with.”   
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
It was full evening when Sherlock stepped into Molly’s flat.  With his own key. He’d had his own key for years now, it was one of the gifts in the box that one disastrous year, he just had reason to use it. To unlock the tumbler with his own key and step in as if he belonged rather than pick the locks and sneak in under cover of darkness as if he wasn’t worthy to cross this threshold.  It was a thing he was still learning.   
  
The flat smelled of tomato sauce and garlic, ah, it was pasta tonight.  Slipping off his coat, he hung it up, (another thing he was learning) and slipped his shoes off at the doorway before padding into the kitchen in stocking feet.  
  
He knew something wasn’t right the moment he stepped into the kitchen.  Molly was single-mindedly focused on the pot before her, not even seeming to notice that he’d come in.  She always heard him enter, was usually turned to great him as he stepped into the kitchen. That she was so focused on something other than him unnerved him.  He found he didn’t like not being the centre of Molly’s universe here in her private sanctum.  
  
The average partner would have crept up behind her and slipped his hands around her waist, letting her know he was home.  Sherlock was not the average partner because he knew the spoon she was holding would inevitably come out of the saucepan and spin with her, thereby transferring red sauce from the spoon onto his suit jacket and shirt.  Which was why he kept the appropriate distance behind her before he spoke.   
  
“Evening.”  
  
As predicted, Molly, who hadn’t heard him come in, sucked in a startled breath, spinning on her heels towards him.  The spoon she’d been stirring the sauce with came with her, leaving a trail of red sauce on the counter, the floor and even a bit on her.  It, however, missed Sherlock by a fourth of a meter.   
  
He watched the spray of sauce as neat as a blood splatter- must look into using the red sauce for blood splatter testing, he thought- before looking back at Molly, an amused eyebrow raised.   
  
She was putting the spoon back into the pot and simultaneously grabbing a towel from the counter with her other.  
  
“I didn’t even hear you come in,”  she said, trying to clean up the mess. “Usually you make some noise.”  
  
“Usually you’re more observant than that.  Here let me.” Taking the towel from her, he bent down to wipe up the sauce on the floor, tossing the towel into the bin when he was finished.  “Don’t bother protesting, the sauce would have never come out of the towel and you’d have spotty towels. I’ll buy you a new one.”  
  
“I don’t want a new one,”  she said, wiping her hands off and stepping towards him.  “You don’t need to buy me new tea towels.”  
  
“Molly Hooper, I’d buy you the world if you would allow me.”  He murmured, pulling her into his arms once she was close enough.  She smelled of garlic and oregano and…sandalwood?  
  
Ducking her head against her neck, he inhaled deeply, causing her to giggle and try to worm her way out of his arms.  
  
“Did you see my brother today?”  he asked, pulled back a little to look at her face.  Her eyes were dilated but that could easily be explained away as arousal.   
  
“Why would I see your brother today?”  her brow furrowed as she watched him watching her.  “Was he supposed to come by?”  
  
“No.  No reason.”  He tried to pull her back in once more but she stood firm.   
  
“Wait.  You never ask things for no reason.”  Her hands were against his chest. He could feel the warmth of her fingertips seeping into the fabric of his shirt.  “Was Mycroft supposed to stop by today? I wish you’d told me, I had errands today.”  
  
“It’s not that,”  How did she always manage to keep him off guard?  “You smell like him. Under the garlic and tomato sauce, there’s a hint of sandalwood.”  
  
She looked a little embarrassed.  “Stopped by the shops today. Walked through the men’s section,”  The hands were moving up and down his shirt fractionally but enough to stutter his mind for a moment, push logic to the back.  “There’s…there’s a scent counter that always reminds me of you, so I like to walk past. It’s stupid I know.”  
  
A hand came up to cover the back on her head where she had buried her face in embarrassment.  “It’s not stupid.” Cupping her face, he tilted it upward, lowering his to meet in the middle.  Lips pressed against his, soft, comforting. It tasted like home.   
  
Molly pushed up, arms wrapping around his shoulders, body pushed achingly close to him.  Arousal pushed all rational thought aside and he responded in kind.   
  
“The sauce,”  he breathed between kisses.  “Turn off the sauce.”  
  


* * *

  
  
It wasn’t until much later in the night, after they were both sated and sore and his Molly was asleep, curled half against his chest, her leg twinned with one of his that he remembered how she’d never really answered any of his questions.   
  



	2. Chapter 2

A message came in via text the next day on her phone, she was speaking when a nurse from the cardiology wing when she felt the vibration n her pocket.  
  
 **[ Vauxhall 4pm don’t be late]**  
  
  
  
Exactly at 4 pm, Molly walked up to the entrance of the huge glass and metal building, moving around men and women in suits, trying not to get in their way as they hurried out of the building, a single-minded focus to get home for the night.   
  
“Miss Hooper?”  
  
Molly turned towards the caramel haired woman that suddenly appeared beside her.  
  
“Mr. Holmes is just this way.  If you care to follow me?”  
  
She led them to a sleek black car and held the door open for her giving Molly no choice but to get in.  Mycroft sat against the rich leather of the seat as she climbed in. The door was closed and the car set off.   
  
“Your assistant isn’t coming with us?”  she asked.   
  
“Not this time.  This, Miss Hooper, is a task that only you and I are partaking in.”   
  
He handed her a thin manila envelope.  I’ve come up with some sample questions for you to look over.  Once you approve of the direction of the questions, the construction of the cards will begin. It has to be just right. As you know Sherlock will study the cards and the envelopes more than he’ll study the words on the paper. The cards and envelopes will be delivered in an airtight container-“  
“Why?”  she was taken aback, this was so much more than even she anticipated.  She expected Mycroft to just come up with a half a dozen to a dozen hints that she would lay about the places needed to lead Sherlock and probably John on a merry chase about London before ending up at the Museum for a party.  She didn’t expect a huge to- do revolving around card stock and sealed containers.  
  
Mycroft gave her a look.  “That is a simplistic question, you know his methods. The container is to keep other scents off of the cards.  He’ll be able to smell where the card went and who held it last. That can’t be helped but we can at least reduce the number of scents in which he is able to draw from.  Now, you’ll need to wear gloves. Not the type you wear at your job, he’ll know that. Rather, wear a pair picked up for the local shop or better yet, washing gloves, never worn. The scent and taste will be a ruse.  A random cog that won’t fit into the puzzle.”  
  
How in the world did these two come to this?  Molly thought as she listened to Mycroft list off instructions.  He was almost gleeful…well as gleeful as Mycroft Holmes could be.  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
“I was thinking about challenges, perhaps a timetable in which to finish each clue? A treat if he gets it correct, a repercussion if he takes too long.”  
  
“Hold on, this is supposed to be lighthearted and fun, not a fight to the death.” This was already on shaky ground, being made to solve puzzles in a particular time frame.  She thought perhaps having a currier bring the first card and then calculating for Sherlock’s cleverness and the ability to figure out difficult questions in a limited time frame adding in the amount of time it would take to get to each particular place around London, she estimated about three and a half hours.    
  
Her worry of this going when she came up with it was that it could trigger him.  Moriarty had sent him on a sort of a scavenger hunt when he first revealed himself, and then even though they never really talked about it, John had told him enough about what happened that his sister’s mind games in the locked cells was the primary reason she’d thrown out her original idea of one of those locked room games that were becoming popular and she told him so.  Mycroft looked disobliged.   
  
“No dangerous tasks, no repercussions.  I want him to enjoy this Mycroft. This game, it’s part of the present.  I don’t want him traumatized before he has cake.”  
  
“Very well, no repercussions, just difficult clues.”  
  
“Just how difficult?”  She pulled the pieces of paper from the envelope.  They were already pre-cut into the squares how she assumed they would be placed when Mycroft had them printed.  Picking one at random.  
  
 ** _Culture-boiled and brown-symbolizing a new start-clay and water-Tap tap tap_**  
  
“Is this supposed to make sense?”  she asked, looking up at Mycroft, more than a little confused.  Was he…smirking?  
  
“I assure you Miss Hooper, it makes perfect sense and I estimate it will take Sherlock a little under three minutes to make the connection.  You see, in the photos you had in the file, I spotted a glass case full of eggs of different shapes and sizes. Eggs in Chinese culture symbolize a new start and the Chinese will eat a red egg on their birthday.  Coincidentally, there was a case early in Sherlock’s career with Dr Watson, if you remember the Black Lotus? A young Chinese woman worked at the National Antiquities Museum as a restoration expert for the antique clay teapots. That’s where the next envelope in the search will be placed.”  
  
She sat back amazed.  “And here I was thinking of writing something along the lines of “The place where you warned off chipped beef.”  
  
It took every ounce of his willpower to not roll his eyes.  “If you had done something like that, I can promise you he would’ve been at the final destination before you even finished depositing the final card in its location.”  
  
“Which is why I asked for your help.  Although, I do have a request.”  
  
She pulled a small piece of paper from her pocket and handed it over to him.   
  
“I want this to be the final card.  The one that leads him to the Museum.”  
  
Mycroft took the paper and opened it.   
  
“ ** _He has a girl he loves every Tuesday, her day off- Kate Gale_**.  I assume this means something?”  
  
“It means enough.  But it will also tell him where the final place is, without telling him.”  
  
“Very well,”  He took back the envelope she offered and slid the paper she’d given him into the top slot.  “If everything is to your satisfaction then I will begin the preparations.”  
  
She smiled.  “Thank you, Mycroft. For everything.”  
He merely nodded as the car pulled smoothly to the curb of her flat. “I’ll contact you when the cards are created.”  


 

* * *

  
  
  
A cab was turning onto Molly’s street when Sherlock, who was in the back, spotted a black car pulling away from the curb.  He knew his brother’s type of car anywhere.  
  
Tapping the driver to stop, he paid the fare and climbed from the cab onto the walk five houses down from hers. He’d stopped by Bart’s first only to be told that Molly had left early for the day.  Now to see her climbing out of Mycroft’s car. Something didn’t add up and there was an itch in his chest to figure out what it was.   
  
Taking the steps quickly, he unlocked and opened the door to her flat just as she was taking off her coat.   
  
“Oh!”  She spun around with her coat still on one sleeve, looking a little like a child trying to get into their coat.  “I didn’t expect you so early. Light day?”  
  
“I saw Mycroft’s car outside your flat just now.”  Sherlock went in for the obvious, watching her intently to see how she’d deal with the direct approach.  Most people paused for just a second as if trying to gather their story in their head.  
  
“You did,”  Molly said, as she finally pulled her arm out of the other sleeve and turned to hand her coat up on the hook.  “I had an appointment in town this afternoon, left work early, and as I was coming out, I guess Mycroft saw me.  He offered me a ride.” Coat hung up, she turned back to him with a smile. “Odd thing though, I thought you said his assistant went with him everywhere.”  
  
“Well if he was on his way home or to a dinner meeting or to the Diogenes Club…”  He hated backtracking but he was caught flat-footed again. There were plenty of reasons Anthea wouldn’t have been with Mycroft, just as Molly’s reasoning of why Mycroft would’ve given her a ride was feasible.  But it didn’t sound…right.   
  
“Did you want dinner?”  she asked, suddenly right in front of him.  Had he gotten distracted again, trying to puzzle what Mycroft’s motive for picking up Molly was?  “There’s still the pasta from last night or we could get takeaway?”  
  
Hands reached for his belt and his mind simply stopped.  Molly’s brown eyes were fixed up at him, glittering mischievously.   
  
“Or maybe another feast in mind?”   
  
She was fast, too fast.  The sound of his zipper followed by first, the sudden chill on his legs and then the warm wet mouth of his heart made his brain screech to a halt. With a groan, hands digging through soft now unbound hair, his sole focus now was his lovely Molly and what she was doing to him.

 

* * *

 

  
Anthea was very good at her job. Her job being making sure Mycroft Holmes had everything he needed exactly when he needed it before he knew he needed it.  The everything also meant dealing with Mycroft’s wayward little brother. 

The same one who was currently trying to nose his way into her office.  Her phone had buzzed not a minute before with the information. He wasn’t on the list of people Mycroft was supposed to see today, but then again, he never was.  He just sort of… appeared whenever. Over the years she’d gotten very good at anticipating him. Just like she had now. She expected him yesterday. 

“Stop loitering in the hallway and do come in,”  she said to the empty hallway. “Your brother isn’t here.”

Sherlock entered, coat open and billowing behind him as he strode into her office.

“What’s Mycroft doing with my Molly?”  he asked, pleasantries ignored. She didn’t even give him the benefit of looking up from her laptop. 

“Nobody is doing anything with anyone.  Stop being pedantic.”

“I’m not being pedantic.”  He protested, sounding very much like the put-upon baby brother at the moment.  He pressed his hands down onto her desk and leaned forward. Only then did she design to look up at him. 

“There’s something going on and I need your help to figure out what.”

Anthea sighed.  “Sherlock…”

“I…I think there’s something going on between Myc and Molly.”

She almost laughed aloud at that comment, told him it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard of.  Molly loved him, always had. It had been obvious to even a blind man. But the look on his face kept her from saying any of this.  He looked like a lost child. A man set adrift without the luxury of a lifejacket. 

She had to remember that this was his first real attempt at any sort of romantic relationship and where most of the rest of society, including all of his friends, already went through the childish second-guessing of secondary school dating, this was Sherlock’s first foray into it and with the self-deprecation and continual second guess of if he was even good for the pathologist, it was clear why his mind automatically went to Molly suddenly choosing his older brother over him.  Even if it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. 

Moving her hands from the keyboards, she gave Sherlock her full attention, a thing never done lightly. 

“Why do you think there is something happening between Mr. Holmes and Miss Hooper.”

“Doctor,”  he said almost automatically.  “In the past week, I had spotted Mycroft with Molly no less than three times, not to mention the number of cryptic messages he’s been texting her over the week.  My brother has never texted anyone that much in his life.”

“I receive many a message from Mr. Holmes on a daily basis.”

“My point exactly!”  He leaned over a bit further.  “He texts his indispensable assistant or his lover, neither of which is Molly.”  Sherlock’s face paled. “I hope not.”

She felt bad for him.  

“Take a seat, come on now, before you fall down.” 

Standing up, he helped him into one of the stiff-backed chairs in the office used for waiting appointments.  They weren’t comfortable, because they were designed and bought to create a sense of unease about being in this office.

“What do I do Andrea ?”  Sherlock’s head drooped, staring at his hands.  “I don’t know how to do this.”

“What do you want to do Sherlock?”  she asked. Having a dejected younger brother in the office was one thing, having a maudlin Sherlock Holmes was quite another.  People could walk by and see. “Tell me what you need and I’ll get it done.”

“Come with me.”  He said suddenly, his head raising.  He looked at her, blue-green eyes shifting in confusion and anguish.  “I need to follow them. I need you to come with me to prove me wrong, that Molly and my brother aren’t betraying either of us. They’re having a meeting this afternoon, I read Molly’s text.” 

“Sherlock, you know your brother.  If there is one thing he is, it’s loyal.  To his position, to the Queen and Country, to you, to me.”  Anthea tried but Sherlock was past listening to her. 

He clasped her hands in his, expression pleading.  “Come with me and help prove me wrong.”

Anthea let out a long-suffering sigh.  The things she did for this family. The things she did for him. 

“Very well, let me just get my coat.”

As if renewed with new purpose, Sherlock bound to his feet, almost bouncing in anticipation.

“Right, let’s go.”

* * *

 

The game had indeed been on.  But at the end of it, Anthea hadn’t been quite sure whose game had been played.   
  
She and Sherlock traversed almost the whole of the London’s West End following after Molly and Mycroft as they at first met up at Molly’s flat, where she slipped into his nondescript black car.   
  
There had been two stops at gourmet cake places, each trip lasting approximately seven point three minutes each. At the second one, she’d sworn that Mycroft saw them as he assisted Molly into the car once more.  He had to know he was being followed. One didn’t’ become as powerful from behind the scenes as Mycroft Holmes without having a sixth and seventh sense about being tailed.   
  
Sherlock had commandeered a taxi and they spent the afternoon seemingly driving around from place to place.  First they drove through Belgravia, then China town, past Charring Cross. It was when they passed the location that house the MI6 training grounds where Mycroft liked to do his “interview” that Anthea put the pieces together and knew that Mycroft, in fact, did know he was being tailed and were having a bit of fun with them.     
  
She was by no means smarter or more clever than either of the Holmes men, so when she looked to Sherlock for confirmation that he knew exactly what his brother was doing, she was surprised to see him looking around with a look of confusion on his face.    
  
“Is he sending us on a wild chase?”  Sherlock asked. “Or is he just driving about so he can spend more time with Molly?”   
  
He honestly was at a loss. His mind was firmly stuck on the idea that Mycroft was seducing Molly and instead of working with the facts given to him, he was moving the facts to suit his incorrect hypothesis.   
  


* * *

  
  
Two hours later, when the black car returned to Molly’s flat and let her out, Anthea was relieved. This meant she could get back to work.    
  
Mycroft exited the car also and the two spoke for a moment on the walk.  There was an almost imperceptible tilt of Mycroft’s head, one that she knew from years of working closely with him and being in sync meant he noticed something.   
  
He leaned down and whispered something in her ear.  Something that made Molly smile and look up at him with a soft shake of her head.  He politely waited until she entered her flat and the door was closed before he returned to the car.    
  
Sherlock was aggrieved.  Anthea watched as all the colour drained from his face, his gaze fixed on the two on the walk.   It worried her. To the point where she had to say something obvious. Something he would’ve noticed had he been aware.    
  
“You know Mr. Holmes knew we were there.”  She said as the cab pulled away from the curb and back towards Vauxhall.  “He spotted the taxi a while back, a large part of this was probably just a merry chase.”   
  
She placed a hand on his arm, in comfort and to ground him, let him know she was still in the car with him before he went off into his mind trick where he was able to block out any and everything.    
  
“That moment on the walk in front of her flat, was just that, a moment created to tease you.  Sherlock.”   
  
He turned his head slowly and her heart skipped.  Those eyes were blank and for a moment, Anthea wondered if she knew exactly the type of dangerous game Mycroft was playing.  He blinked and as if it hadn’t been there, Sherlock was back, a frown on his brow.    
  
“Of course…of course.  I wasn’t exactly stealthy, was I?”    
  
Turning his head away from her, focusing instead on the bustle outside the taxi’s windows.    
  
“Thank you Anthea.  For indulging me today.”   
  
“Are you…alright?”  She cringed asking that. It was the one thing never asked.   
  
“I’m always fine Anthea, thank you.”   
  
Nevertheless, it wouldn’t hurt to send a text to Miss Hooper to let her know tonight might be a bad night for her.   
  
The taxi let her out at Vauxhall and she emerged.  The door closed behind her and the taxi drove off before she had taken two steps.    
  
Resigned, she made her way up the concrete steps towards the building and back to her office.

 

* * *

  
  
  


Mycroft was already back and in his office when Anthea returned to the office.  

Putting herself to rights, she gave a perfunctory knock at the door, not waiting for an “enter” before walking into the office and shutting the door behind her. 

Mycroft didn’t even bother to look up as she crossed the floor towards his desk. 

“How was your lunch, my dear?”  His tone was one of a beleaguered bureaucrat that was making polite conversation.

“Just how long did you know we were following you?”  she asked, pretence put aside for the moment. “From the beginning or once we began trailing you in the taxi?”

Mycroft glanced up and behind that bland expression, she could see a hint of mischievous sparkling ice blue eyes. 

“I must admit, it took a bit for me to realize we were being followed, I was invested in the conversation with Miss Hooper.  It wasn’t until the second cake place that I noticed Sherlock’s frame peeking from a shop corner.”

She leaned a hip against a desk corner, the one closest to his chair.  “Did Miss Hooper ever notice?”

“Fortunately, she did not.”  He replied, leaning back in his chair, eyes, lifting up to her face.  “She has already addressed a concern that Sherlock is asking questions about she and I, I did not want to add to her apprehension. By letting her know that brother dear had upped the ante, so to speak, to stalking.”

“He does, you know.”  She replied. “Think that there’s something going on between the two of you.  It’s why he pulled me into this ridiculous chase today. He needed to see what you were doing and where you were going with “his Molly”.”

Mycroft’s response was merely a truly mischievous smile.  Anthea frowned. 

“Stop it.”  She ordered firmly.  “I know that you two have this constant battle of wills, but I’m asking you Mycroft, not on this.  His face, I’ve never seen Sherlock so hurt, he was a lost child and I worry he might either push Molly away or force an argument.  Their relationship is rocky at best, after all this time of missing connections and Sherlock’s ridiculous misinterpretation of practically everything,  I worry something like this might push him over the edge and make him lash out. Probably against Molly, instead of you. May I also remind you that if he and Molly do break up, he is liable to do something really ridiculous, like return to drugs and we will have one less person watching over him.”

Her elegant brows narrowed as she watched him.  “He thinks Molly has chosen you over him.”

“That’s preposterous!”  His face took on a worried countenance.  “You do understand that is preposterous, correct?  I am merely assisting Miss Hooper in her endeavours to give my brother an enjoyable birthday.”

She reached out, caressing his arm, fingers gliding down the length to his hand, the pads of her fingers, brushing comfortingly against the top of his hand before parting completely. 

“I understand that.”  She agreed. “Because I understand all too well how your mind works, Mycroft.  And I have a bit more experience than Sherlock in the relationship department. You keep forgetting this is his first real romance, one that isn’t faked or for a case.”  With a soft smile, she leaned towards him, hip still on the edge of the desk. “Even you, in your capacity, have more experience in the romantic relationship department than your brother. Remember that.”

Flipping his hand over, his fingers caressed hers, subtle yet reminding her he was there.

“Dearest, it’s only because of you that I am better than I was. I hear you, I’ve no wish to ruin what Sherlock has with Miss Hooper.  I will not attempt to undermine what they have for amusement’s sake.”

A smile and a soft kiss against his cheek was his reward.

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

“Anything for you dearest.”

* * *

  
  


Sherlock walked into Molly’s flat, remembering to kick off his shoes, determined to have it out with her.  Anna’s words were still echoing in his mind, but he needed to know. Needed to make sure. It might be a trick on Mycroft’s part, the illusion of sentiment on his part, but Molly…his Molly.  She wouldn’t betray him like that, would she? There had been ample time before they had begun…this for her to make any attraction to his brother noticeable. But not once had she. Was he mistaken?  But then why would she and Mycroft suddenly begin this tete-ta-tete? 

“Sherlock?”

The simple question from her lips stopped him, shifted his worrying into possessive baby brother mode. 

_ She’s mine.  Mine. Mycroft can’t have her. _

He stalked into the kitchen where Molly stood against the counter pouring out a cup of tea for herself. 

“Did you want a cu-“

He grasped her shoulders roughly, spinning her around and pushing her against the counter with his body, his mouth falling on her possessively, desperately, as if trying to prove to himself that she was still his. 

She stiffened for a moment, only a brief moment and in that moment his heart froze, almost in despair.  Then her hands were around his neck, in his hair, and she was returning the kiss, frantic, hard, tongues sliding against one another, breath hot in mouths, teeth clacking together. She pressed fully against him, her breasts pressed tight against his chest, hips hard against his, his own hardness pressing against her so tight the moan it ripped from her throat was music to his ears.

He pulled his mouth away from hers, panting, smug when he felt her try to follow his mouth.

“Mine.”  He rasped.  “You’re mine, my Molly, right?  All mine.”

He claimed her mouth before she could agree or disagree, intent on proving his words with actions.  He had her now, they belonged to each other, after so many long frustrating years, he was not about to allow his brother have her.  Never, not his Molly. 

Hands slipped down over her arse and he lifted her up.  Her legs immediately wrapped around his waist as if that was where they belonged, her center pressing harder against his erection, pulling a growl from him. 

“Sher-“  she gasped, cut off once more with his mouth on hers.  Turning, he walked, by memory, to her bedroom, stepping in the correct places and over the cat, who was lounging in the middle of the hallway.  His fingers kneaded her arse as he kicked the door to her bedroom closed and walked the four steps to her bed where he deposited her, one knee between her legs. 

“Sherlock,” she gasped again as his mouth latched onto her neck, sucking and biting, marking her as his.

Hand pulling off clothing urgently, noticing that she was doing the same, her movements almost as frantic as his now.

He pulled off her top and ducked his head, his lips wrapping around a stiff nipple, hearing the intake of breath as he did so.  Short nails digging against his scalp, tugging at his hair as he pulled off her trousers and knickers in one go, one hand trying to tug off the rest as the other slid against the wetness of her, eliciting a long moan from her.

“Fuck…Sherlock…”

“Mine.”  He swore, running teeth against her breast, sucking a hard mark just on the inside, one she would see the next shower she took.  “My Molly, mine.”

“Yes, God, yes!”  she gasped, her small hands tugging his own trousers down, sliding a hand down and wrapping around his erection.  He moaned, thrusting against her hand. He needed her. needed to possess her, to drive away these demons that even now spoke to him saying dark things mocking in his mind. 

His fingers pumped inside her, her wetness coating his fingers. 

Molly’s voice rose, gasps and words tripping one over the other as she begged, pleaded for him to give this to her.  But no, he didn’t want her orgasm because of talented fingers, he needed to feel her shatter apart, needed to feel her walls clench around him, pulling him into her as she exploded and came around him. 

Pulling his fingers from her, ignoring her sharp protests, he tugged his trousers completely off, kicking them off the bed.  Grabbing her hips, fingers tightening against the skin, he plunged into her, eyes closing and groaning at the familiar welcoming warmth of his Molly. 

Beneath him, Molly cried out, her back arching enticingly, legs wrapping back around his waist, hands digging into his own arse pulling him further into her body. 

He bottomed out into her, his mouth blindly seeking hers as he moved, deliberate as if this would erase any thoughts of anyone else from her mind.  

“You’re mine. Say it.”

“Yours…Sherlock, always yours…Christ…please, Sherlock.” 

Already he could feel fluttering around his strokes, the signal of the oncoming orgasm for her.  

“No.”  Another thrust.  “Not yet. Not until I say.”

Molly whimpered but did as bid. Opening his eyes, he watched her. 

She was glorious under him, cheeks flushed, lips kiss bruised, eyes sparking with arousal. Those brown eyes watched him, trusting, loving, open.  He was all she saw. Looking at him like this, how could she have any other feelings from anyone else, especially his brother?

“I love you.”  She whispered as if reading his mind.  “You, only ever yours.”

It was too much, all of it was too much. 

“Molly…my Molly, love you.”

A trembling hand appeared in his line of blurry vision for just a moment, then rested against his cheek, caressing, soft. 

“Sherlock.  My Sherlock.”

He couldn’t…couldn’t bear it.  Burying his face against her neck he came with a pained grunt, hearing her cries in his ears, feeling her tighten around him pulling him further into him as if she never wanted to let him go. 

And in that space of pleasure and wholeness, he let himself go.

* * *

 

Molly gasped a breath, legs sprawled out on the tangled sheets, Sherlock’s gasping breaths loud against her neck.  They were still connected, not that she minded. She found that she liked this part of their lovemaking, this hazy aftermath where they were still together like this, sated and comfortable.  She liked feeling his weight against her body, solid and whole, reminding her that he was there.

Hands stroked his back, making lazy strokes from his shoulder blades to his lower back and returning, comforting him.  Sex was always an emotional process between them. The aftermath even more so, as if Sherlock needed that moment to connect everything in his mind before he moved forward.

Molly was clueless as to what would’ve instigated this contact. Sherlock’s motivations were still a mystery to her, each moment of their lovemaking she was never sure which Sherlock she would get.  She loved each of them in their place, but today, she knew from the first moment when he spun her around and pressed her between himself and the kitchen counter that it would be methodic, possessive.  Something she should be outraged, maybe a little offended about but there was something about hearing Sherlock Holmes undone, telling her she was his, that struck a cord in her body, the old Molly Hooper who once dreamed of him doing that exact thing to her.  Although, it was never about really telling her she belonged to him when he said it, it was always more of him confirming it aloud, that she was here and his, rather confirming it in his own mind.

She pressed her lips to his jawline and felt him shiver, and then stir, signalling his intent to move. 

She relaxed her arms wrapped around his body, but not letting him go completely. 

He rolled off her with a soft groan and she lamented the sudden emptiness.  He didn’t stop, resting beside her on the bed, rather he left the bed entirely, padding naked towards the bathroom. 

With a frown, Molly sat up watching him walk off.  There were usually soft kisses and nuzzles before he left her, this time…nothing. 

She climbed out of the bed, reaching for her dressing gown when she heard the water shut off and moments later, he walked back into the bedroom. 

Without a word, he began dressing. 

“Sherlock?”  she pressed, tying her sash.  He didn’t respond, only sliding on his pants and his trouser, doing them up. 

“Sherlock.  What happened?  Did someone text you?”

That could be the only explanation for this sudden silence.  She hadn’t done anything, said anything even. 

Sherlock slid on his shirt and stood up, still silent. 

Anger and indignation filling her now, she stormed towards him, standing before him, inches away from his hands buttoning his shirt.

“Are you leaving?  What the hell is going on?  Why are you not talking to me, is this some sort of sick joke?”

“I never should have come here.”  He said as he finished his buttons and turned for his suit jacket.  “This was a mistake.”

Her hand hit hard against his chest.  He curled against the blow, his breath huffing out. 

“A mistake?”  Her voice rising in volume, her eyes wet.  “A mistake? You come here and claim me, pick me up and take me into this bedroom and fuck me, all the while telling me I’m yours, all of that was a mistake?”

Her hand him hit hard in the chest once more and he blinked, looking at her as if he was confused as to why she was acting this way. 

“You clearly have options to ponder.”  He said as he pulled on his jacket. “I was merely making my case.”

Her brown eyes turned dark and cold.  “Get out.”

“Molly, I was only…”

“You weren’t only anything, as if…”  she gave a cold laugh, shaking her head and walking out of the bedroom.  Tugging at his jacket, Sherlock followed. 

In the kitchen, Molly was pouring out her tea and turning the kettle on for a fresh cup. 

“Molly,” he reached out to touch her shoulder.  With almost a second sight, she pulled away from him, turning and lashing out with her hand. 

“No!  You don’t get to touch me, not after that.  You are who I love…or thought I did. For you to use me so callously…”  she blinked back tears. “Fuck you Sherlock Holmes. Get out. Get out of my flat.”

“Molly…”

“Leave. Now.”  Her voice, tear-filled, was as cold as ice.  His own lips thinned and spinning on his heels, he strode through the flat, pausing only to slip into his shoes and grab his coat. 

Molly pressed her lips together until she heard the door slam shut. 

Then the tears came, torrents falling from her eyes.  With a shaking hand, she slumped to the floor, sobbing quietly.

* * *

 

Mycroft met with Molly at Barts three days later and immediately knew something was off.  The woman looked, lacklustre. The hollows underneath her eyes were darker, her skin was shallow, her movements almost automatic.    
  
_ Fight with Sherlock.   
  
Worse.  He did something worse. _   
  
His gaze circled over her person, even as she turned towards him and offered a wane smile.  The smile left her lips seconds later to be replaced by a tired glare.   
  
“Don’t deduce me Mycroft, I’ve had enough of that this week.”   
__   
Marks barely hidden on her neck…oh you idiot boy.   
  
“The letters were completed this morning.”  From his person, he produced a small airtight brown letterbox, richly furnished and looking as if it cost more than half her salary.  He did not apologize for his deductions, nor did he speak to her about them. She would play them off or simply shut down and deflect. It was her way, to put everyone else before her own person.  Consistently he was surprised with how she managed to function being everyone’s rock. But then, he knew his father.   
  
“Remember, keep them in the box until you are ready to put them together and then once again when you are ready to distribute them. Remember to use the washing gloves as we discussed.”   
  
Molly nodded listlessly, hand outstretched as she walked towards him.  “I remember. Everything is set up for it, the places chosen have given their approval.”   
  
As she reached him, a brief bout of sentiment for the smaller woman washed over him and Mycroft pulled the box just out of her reach, studying her.    
  
“Are you positive you still want to go through with this? My brother is a fool who doesn’t deserve such a gesture even on his best days.”   
  
Molly said nothing, merely stood before him, hand outstretched.  One more searching glance and a brief nod, he placed the box into her hands.   
  
“Very well. I am not convinced that my brother truly knows how lucky he is at times.”   
  
His words elicited the smallest of smiles from Molly.    
  
“Thank you for doing this, Mycroft. I appreciate all of your help.”   
  
“I look forward to seeing the final result.”   
  
With one final nod, he turned and left the lab.  He had someone else to see.   
  


* * *

  
  
Sherlock paced around the sitting room of Baker Street, from the couch to the fireplace and back marking a well-worn path with his bare feet.  His hands dug into his hair, pulling and tugging as his mind raced with a thousand different possibilities of what he’d seen, what he’d heard.   
  
It was impossible.   
  
_Nothing is impossible_. The voice that sounded frustratingly like his brother whispered in his head.   
  
_You are who I love…or thought I did_.  The words pierced through this brain like a brand.   Could she truly be finished with him? After her words during their lovemaking?  Her cries still rang in his ears. As did the cold fury that slashed at him afterwards.    
  
Another turn in his flat, another tug at his hair as he tried to piece together this puzzle.  There was something missing. There was always something missing. But he didn’t know what it was this time.  All of the clues were there, right there in his face telling him exactly what was happening. There’s no such thing as coincidences.  Molly was spending an inordinate amount of time with Mycroft on a personal level. Mycroft didn’t do personal. They were both keeping secrets from him.    
  
All of this resulted in one glaringly obvious answer.    
  
Molly.  His Molly had decided on Mycroft instead.    
  
With a cry of anguish, Sherlock spun around, gnashing his teeth, hands shaking.    
  
“No!”    
  
“You alright mate?”   
  
John stood at the entryway, watching his best friend with an air of wariness.    
  
Sherlock’s mouth opened, about to deliver a blistering retort.  He wanted to be left alone, this…sentiment was pointless because it hurt, dear God why did it hurt so much?  He didn’t want to be on the losing side of this anymore, he wanted his old life back when he didn’t feel anything and if that meant leaving again then by God, he was getting on the next plane to Croatia tonight.   
  
“If you’ll excuse us, John.”  Mycroft’s voice suddenly cut through the silence.  Sherlock spun, snarling at his brother.   
  
_ Traitor. _   
  
Mycroft didn’t look phased.  “My brother and I need to discuss his utter stupidly.  If you would please wait with Mrs. Hudson, I don’t think this will take very long.”   
  
John stood for a moment, indecisive.  The last few times the brothers were alone to “settle differences” someone, usually Mycroft, had gotten hurt.  He looked between the two; Mycroft, looking put together yet resigned. Sherlock, pacing barefoot with his dressing gown on, hair wild, the snarl on his mouth, pulling his lips back to show teeth, blue eyes tinged with red glaring at Mycroft.    
  
“Yeah.  Okay. But I am just downstairs.”  He told them both. “If I heard too much banging around up here, I will come up and put a halt to it.”   
  
With one final look to the two, John turned and headed back downstairs.    
  
The brothers faced off, neither speaking until the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s door closing signaled the first round.    
  
Mycroft was the first to speak.    
  
“Brother mine, you are a fool.”   
  
“Oh, you don’t want to appal me.  Not now.”   
  
Dropping his umbrella beside the coat rack, Mycroft unbuttoned his suit coat, slipping it off.  Sherlock frowned.    
  
“What are you doing?”   
  
“If we are going to resort to fisticuffs, I  would prefer to be comfortable.”   
  
Sherlock laughed.  A cold, dark laugh.  “Defending your paramour’s honour then?   She does have that effect on people.”   
  
“Once again, your grasp is tenuous at best.  You are seeing everything but not observing anything, as you are so fond of saying.”   
  
“I think I am observing everything perfectly well.”   
  
“You observe nothing.”  Mycroft snarled. “Your grasp on the so-called obvious is so misdirected Rosie could have figured it out by now.   Think. Use that mind for something other than conjecture and obliviousness and think! Put the facts together.”   
  
“I saw you,”  Sherlock shouted.  “You and…together. More than once.  She lied to me when I asked. Lied. To me.  What else am I supposed to think? All the clues add up.”   
  
“And you didn’t stop to think that perhaps there was an alternative to a liaison?”  Mycroft snapped back, unclipping his cufflinks and pocketing them. He began rolling up his sleeves.  “Just assumed that was the obvious conclusion with such limited data? Think Sherlock. What else could Miss Hooper and I be doing other than a folie?  There is absolutely no other reason that I could possibly be in need of Miss Hooper other than sexual magnetism?”   
  
“You don’t get to talk about her like that.”  Sherlock stalked towards him. Mycroft stood his ground, hands clenched into fists.    
  
“Yet you do?  With your every thought you betray her, Sherlock.  With every incorrect deduction, you do her a disservice.  And now, now, you’re idiocy had potentially cost you her love.  Tell me?” he sneered. “Just how soon after you had sex with her did you verbally eviscerate her and leave her in tatters?”   
  
A fist shot out and this time Mycroft was prepared.  Dodging it, he reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s arm, pulling hard causing him to imbalance.  As Sherlock stumbled to catch his balance, Mycroft shot out an elbow to his brother’s sternum, knocking him back a few steps.  Spinning on his heels, his training still wasn’t a match for the street-smart and enraged Sherlock. 

This time he couldn’t duck the fist and it hit him in the side of the face, knocking him off balance. He retaliated with a back chop against Sherlock’s windpipe that sent the man coughing.  

Relying on the ages long and innate instinct that all big brothers have when dealing with younger siblings, Mycroft pressed the advantage, attacking once more and putting Sherlock on the defensive.

The two brothers grappled, tugging and slapping when they found an unguarded spot, both so focused on getting the upper hand they didn’t hear the footsteps running up the stairs.  

“Stop!  Stop it the pair of you!”

John pushed himself in between the two of them, pushing them apart and receiving an elbow to the head by one of them for his efforts. 

Mycroft and Sherlock stumbled backwards, gaze wary and never leaving the other.  

“Knock it off!”  John yelled again, glaring at the both of them.  “You’re acting like children. What in the hell is so bad that you two are actually fighting like a pair of rapscallions?”

“He started it!”  Sherlock immediately yelled, an instinct long born into the cells of younger brothers.

Mycroft gingerly touched his swelling cheek.  Anthea was not going to be happy about this. 

“If you remember brother mine, you made the first swing.”

“Because you were talking about her!”  Sherlock snapped back. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and winced.  

“What I said about Miss Hooper was tame to what you did to her.”  he retorted.”

Sherlock took a step towards him and John put a hand on his chest pushing him back.  

Mycroft limped to the coat rack and tugged his suit jacket from the hook, and picked up his umbrella.  He turned back to Sherlock, who was still pushing against John’s grip, multi swirl eyes flashing almost green with unrestrained fury.

Mycroft was not leaving without the final attack. 

“I am not come by sentiment so believe me when I tell you that Miss Hooper is one of the brightest jewels of the British Empire.  Her willingness and abilities have caught the attention of even Her Majesty at times. You are a fool if you push her away and trust in this, Brother mine, this last stunt might have done just that.”

Without another word, Mycroft made his way down the stairs and back to his car.  He needed to contact Anthea. She was absolutely not going to be happy.

* * *

 

John stood between Sherlock and Mycroft, still more than a  little stunned about coming into an actual fight between the brothers.  Sherlock’s heaving chest was still under his fingertips and he could feel the anger vibrating through the man’s body. 

He waited until he heard the door shut downstairs before moving his hand.  

As if unrestrained, Sherlock spun on his heels and swiped a hand across the side table, knocking papers and books all over the floor. 

“What is going on?”  John asked again, his voice rising to be heard.  He recognized the signs by now, and he needed to distract Sherlock before the man had a full-on temper tantrum.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, anger dissipated, looking suddenly lost.  John took a step towards him, worried. Another step until he stood beside his best friend.  

“What is going on?”  he asked once more, this time calmer.

Sherlock looked at him, sadness emanating from his gaze. 

“I think I’ve finally succeeded in losing Molly,”  he said in a trembling voice. 


	3. Chapter 3

Final Week 

  
  


John’s phone  was ringing.  Right in the middle of feeding Rosie.  

With a soft grunt, he reached over the table,  the spoon aiming closer to Rosie’s cheek than her face.  

Small pudgy hands came up and grabbed her father’s hand, moving  the spoon to  her mouth and taking the bite of yogurt and mashed banana that  were on it. 

“Sorry luv,”  he chuckled, finally managing to pick up his phone and  look at the id.  “It’s Aunt Molly.” 

Rosie squealed, banana drooling from  her mouth .  

Swiping with one finger, he put the phone  on speaker .  

“Hello Molly, In the middle of feeding Rosie breakfast, so you’re  on speaker .  How are you?”

“Are you alone?”  Molly asked. “Outside Rosie?”

Rosie babbled a hello to the phone as she banged on the tray.  

“Hello Rosie my love,”  Molly cooed. 

“Um, yeah it’s just me and her Highness.  Is this about Sherlock?  Look Molly, I  know what he did, and he’s a huge arse but please... just talk to him yeah?  I’ll even be-”

“John.”  Molly cut him off, her voice serious, a stark contract from the cooing she’d just been doing.  “I need you to do me a favour. And you can’t tell anyone.”

John frowned.  “Okay. What do you need?”

 

* * *

  
  
  


It had been a week.  An excruciating week in which he hadn’t seen nor  heard from Molly.

After Mycroft had left, John sat him down and made him explain what he’d done.

He made it only part way through the story when John stopped him.

“You are such a bloody idiot.”  he gritted out, hands clenched into fists.  “You don’t…” 

The man took a deep breath, held it and slowly let it out.  

“I see the therapy is working.”  Sherlock said with a petulant bite.  

“Shut up.”  John snapped.  “It’s working but just barely.  That was Not Good, Sherlock.  On a scale of Not Good things you’ve done, and that includes lying to me about you being dead for two years, this is up there and past.  You don’t do something like that, Sherlock. Everything you have ever said or done to Molly pales in comparison to this.   If she…” John took another deep breath and began pacing the floor. Sherlock remained in his chair, warily watching his best friend. 

“If she deems to ever speak to you again, you’d better get to your knees  and grovel and beg for her forgiveness.”

“I don’t beg-”

“You’ll bloody beg this time!”  John shouted at him, spinning on his heels and glaring at the man.  “You’ll bloody well beg  and grovel and then kiss her feet if she decided to forgive you because that’s how Not Good this is Sherlock. You cocked up.”  

He shook his head and fell into his own chair, suddenly drained.  “I’m not sure even you can fix this one.”

  
  


He didn’t see his brother the rest of the week, nor did he see Molly.  She didn’t respond to his text messages, his actual phone calls, the flowers, nothing.  It  was like she vanished but without actually leaving London.  He’d  know if she’d left London.  

The one time he went to the Morgue on a case with Lestrade, there was another doctor there, a new specialist registrar who’d just started not two weeks before and therefore had not the privilege of working with Sherlock before. 

He looked at the two men, hands clenched over  the report ,  the body behind him.  

“I don't know, all I know is Dr. Hooper couldn’t be here and told me to make sure you got a look at the body when you both came in.”   He flapped  the report in his hands towards them.  “I have  the analysis if you need to  look at it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond.  Lestrade’s warning hand on his shoulder halted his words.  

With  a look , Lestrade stretched out a hand, silently asking for  the report .   It was placed in his hand and the young man skittered to the back of the Morgue to stay out of harm's way and let the two men observe the body without his help.

  
  


“She’s always there.”  Sherlock said as they left.  Lestrade quirked his lips. 

“ Not sure what you did but I’m betting it’s pretty bad.  Molly’ll forgive you almost anything. Not showing up when she  knew you would be here…”  he shook his head. “ Not sure what you buggered up mate, you but need to fix it.”

  
  


Now he sat in his chair, hands folded under his chin, trying to figure out how to fix this.  It’d taken almost the entirety of the week for him to truly realize what he’d done, how he’s done it in such a way that would guarantee her erasing him from her life, if she were the average woman.  But she wasn’t, she was his Molly.  She’d been through much worse with him, why would this be the one that broke the streak?  What did he need to do to ask for her forgiveness, He couldn’t even get close enough to her to ever begin to speak to her.  If he couldn’t speak to her, see her, how was he supposed to ask forgiveness?

His thoughts  were so deep, he didn’t  hear the knock on  the door , nor the footfalls coming up his stairs. 

John, who’d come into the flat an hour before, say Sherlock in his chair, deep in thought and had continued on with his own thing, writing up the most recent case for his blog, looked up when the knock on the door frame came.  

“Letter for Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”  the young kid said, more than a little nervously.  Obviously he’d been warned about this place. 

“I can take it.”  He said as he approached the kid. 

“You need to sign for it.”

John signed the board and tipped the kid who hurried back down the stairs as quickly as possible. 

He looked at the envelope, remembering the last time an unsigned letter  was delivered to the flat. 

Taking it to the mantle, he pulled the knife from its stationary place, embedded into the wood, and used it to cut open the expensive linen.

“What is that?”

John looked up to see Sherlock looking up at him, the first spark of any interest he’d shown in anything over the last few days.

“Letter.  Just came for you.”  He handed over  the envelope to Sherlock’s outstretched hand.

Sherlock looked at  the envelope , turning it over in his fingers.  He brought it up and sniffed it, wrinkling his nose a bit, and then licked it.  John merely watched him. 

Sherlock frowned in confusion, flipping it over once more before opening it and slipping out the vellum card inside. 

“Expensive stationary.”  He murmured. “Vellum, linen paper.  A hint of pepper. The stationary  was bought at Smythson.”  He opened  the card and frowned.  “Printed there also.  Whomever did this  went out of their way to make sure they couldn’t be traced.”

John frowned, stepping closer to  look at  the card .  “Can’t we just go there and ask.”

Sherlock spared him a glance before focusing back on  the card . 

“They cater to the Royal Family and the Prime Minister.  They are well known for their discretion. We’ll not get a thing from them.”  A slight tilt to his lips as he flipped  the card over once more, the first hint of any expression John had seen in the last few days.  “Ironically my brother also had his stationary ordered from there, but this is not his usual fare, so we might ignore that.”

He opened  the card and scanned the words inside, his frown deepening.   Standing up, eyes still on  the card , reading and rereading over and over.  John had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Someone wants to play a game.  But who?” Sherlock frowned again, his thought running quickly.  “Moriarty is dead, had been for years, it’s a little late to be bringing him out to parade around.  Another person? We’ve had no hints of anything happening for beginning to happen, if there had been Mycroft surely would’ve contacted me, argument or no.”

John took the card, scanning the contents and then reading it aloud.

_ Let’s play a ga _ **_M_ ** _ e. _

_ It will be quick _

**_O_ ** _ r not _

_ It  _ **_A_ ** _ ll depends on you _

**_W_ ** _ ill you be up to the task? _

**_N_ ** _ un could be better. _

_ You believe yourself clever. _

_ Bet you’ll be defrocked before Four pm _

_ Tick tock _ _ ,  _ _ tick tock _ _. _

John looked up from the letter. 

“What the hell does this even mean?  As poems go this really doesn’t make sense.”  He looked back down at  the card .  “There are letters bolded, words spelled wrong.  Really, if this person is going to invest in expensive stationary, you’d think they’d check the printing inside. 

Sherlock turned back around and with one step, plucking  the card from John’s fingers.  Eyes scanning over the paragraphs once more, he shook his head. 

“Belgravia.” He said suddenly.  John looked up at him.

“Bel… Belgravia?”

“Read  the card John.  There are certain letters bolded, and the defrocked and the misspelling of none?  Remember, I dressed as a priest to get into The Woman’s house. Put the letters together.   The card is telling us to go to Belgravia.”

“Why Belgravia?”  His eyes widened. “She’s not back is she?  Adler? She hasn’t come back to England, has she?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s in the States, California last I  heard .  Not that I talk to her, she just texts me sometimes, keeps me updated.  Nevermind that,” he walked towards the coat rack, picking up  his coat and swinging it around him to put it on. “It seems we’ve been summoned  to Belgravia .”

With a sigh, John grabbed  his coat and followed Sherlock out the door.

* * *

  
  


John peering out the window as they pass street after street on their way  to Belgravia .   Glancing back at his friend who seemed to be lost in thought and not really as excited as he usually was about random messages from unknown persons appearing in his flat.

“I don’t have to punch you again  this time , do I?”  he asked with a slight grin.  

Sherlock looked away from his musings out the window and gave John a wry  look .  “I doubt it’ll come to that  this time .  We’re hardly  going there for nefarious purposes.”

“Why are we  going there ?  Because a mysterious letter told  us to ?  Seems rather suspicious.”

“Somebody wants  us to play their game and I, for one, am not going to disappoint them.  So long as it remains interesting that is.”

The cab stopped in front in Belgravia, at the address given.  From the taxi John could see another one of those vellum envelopes tucked neatly beside  the front door .

Sherlock  was already out of  the cab and striding up to  the front door .  Before John could open  the door , Sherlock had plucked the envelope up and opened it. 

Scanning the contents, he walked back towards them.

“ Back in John, we’re off to  Charing Cross .”

Half out of the taxi, John changed course and slid  back in .   The door to the other side opened and Sherlock slid back inside the car. 

“ Charing Cross tunnel Roger, if you please.”

“Right Gov,” the cabbie answered and pulled out into traffic once more. Sherlock had his phone out and was texting someone, the envelope sitting on his lap.  Curious, John picked it up and pulled out the card.  The card only carried four words.

 

**How I Did It**

 

He flipped the card over and looked at the back as if something there would give him the answer.  The back of the card was as smooth and unblemished as fresh linen.

“John, I need you to text Molly.”  Sherlock pocketed his phone and plucked  the card back from John’s fingertips.  The man looked up perplexed. 

“Wh… how did you get Charing Cross from four words and why do I need to text Molly?”

“Because she has not forgiven me as of yet for my behavior and I fear her life might be  in danger .”  He explained rapidly.  “Just text her and tell her to stay at work until someone can pick her up.”

“Okay, but why am I doing this?”  John asked as he pulled his phone from his pocket.  “You have to give me something as to how you jumped to Molly’s  in danger from four words.”

“It’s from  a case .”  He said, suddenly jittery.   He crossed his legs and then uncrossed them, moved around in his seat and then leaned forward, peering through the front window as if he could mentally map out a quicker route. 

“ A case .”

“A bad one.  When I came back, Anderson had devised what he mistakenly thought  was a clever trap.  You and I  were still not speaking and so I took Molly with me as a sort of  thank you .”

“A  thank you .”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say? It’s tiresome.”  Sherlock snapped. “Yes. One of the places  was an underground room off of the Charing Cross station.   He’d set up a skeleton in old clothing with a hidden book that read “How I Did It by Jack the Ripper”  Molly came to the conclusion the same time I did that the skeleton was borrowed from a teaching facility and that the entire thing was a set up.” 

His lips quirked up slightly and  his eyes softened.  “She’s clever.”   His eyes hardened once more.  “ I can’t let anything harm her.  Even if she’d angry at me,  I can’t allow anything to touch her.  I’ve been so good about keeping her outside my sphere.  Well I  was before we began our relationship.”

“Sherlock…”

“This note,”  he shook it slightly.  “Is sending us to that self-same area.  An area that only Molly, Lestrade and I  knew about.  If this person knows then that means Molly’s in danger.  And  I can’t …”  he frowned, his voice cutting off suddenly.  He turned back to the window, intently watching the streets as they passed. 

“ I can’t John,”  he repeated with a finality that John understood all too well.

 

* * *

 

The room was dark and filthy.  John opened the flashlight app on his phone and shone it around the room as they descended the stairs.  Ahead of him, mindless to any danger, Sherlock hurried down the stairs, his focus on one particular spot.

Swinging his light toward where his friend was walking, John almost dropped his phone as the light shone upon a grinning skeletal figure in a black robe.  It sat in a chair towards the far wall. In its lap sat a tarnished metal plate with another envelope resting upon it. 

“Sherlock,”  John hissed, hurrying to reach  his friend before he touched anything.  “Perhaps we should call Greg? This could be dangerous and if it is a trap nobody knows where we are.”

Ignoring him, Sherlock picked up the envelope and ripped it open. 

“John, the light.”  He barked.  Grumbling under his breath, John walked to him, lifting his phone high enough that they both could see the note.

 

**Culture-boiled and brown-symbolizing a new start-clay and water-Tap tap tap**

“What the hell does that mean?”  John looked  around the enclosed underground room and couldn’t suppress a shiver.  “Can we discuss this above ground?  Staying in here brings back too many bad memories.”

Blinking Sherlock looked up from the note and then  around the darkened enclosed metal and dirt room. 

“After you.”

Not wasting any time, John hurried back up the stairs, Sherlock close behind, ignoring any old ghosts that might have lingered in the room.

He didn’t breathe freely again until the sun  was high above him and there  was nothing but wide open spaces and the sound of car horns and train whistles.  Only then did he relax. 

“Okay, let’s have a  look at that note.” 

Sherlock shut the metal door, pulling the note from his pocket and handing it over.    Reading it over once more, he shook his head. 

“I still don’t get it.  This one just doesn’t make any sense.  Boiled and brown? Is it roots? And what does that have to do with symbolizing a new start?”

Sherlock stood,  his eyes closed, almost squeezed shut as ran through all the information regarding the words on  the card inside.   His eyes shot open. 

“Soo Lin Yao.”

The name rang a bell in John’s head.  His eyes widened.  “The girl at the museum whose brother was part of the Black Lotus gang?  How did you get that from,”  he waved towards the card.  “That?”

“Eggs are  part of China’s culture.  Boiled and brown. Also, the clay teapots she  was tempering.”  He spun around in a circle before finally facing west.  “ The National Antiquities Museum, that’s where the next note is.”

Long legs began moving and John hurried to catch up with him.  “Did you notice this is the third place that’s tied to past cases?”  he asked. “And I’m not sure this is about Molly. I mean, Belgravia and  the National Museum don’t have anything to do with her.  In fact the only thing any of these cases have in common is you.”

Sherlock stopped so suddenly that John had to hop a little in order not to run right into his back. 

“Sherlock, dammit!”

The taller man turned around, the previously worried  look in his eyes replaced with a myriad of emotions; confusion, shock, realization, mortification. 

“What’s wrong?”

“What is today?  Do you remember?”

“The sixth, why…”  John’s eyes widened.  “Bugger. I remembered, I swear I did.  Your present is still at my flat.  Rosie had a mess right before we were to leave and I had to give her a bath and change her into fresh clothes and we were late, and we rushed out and I almost forgot her bag and her raggie and bloody hell Sherlock.”   He let out a breath.  “Happy birthday mate.”

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal.  “Thank you John but that’s not it. These clues.  The significant lack of things exploding or people being shot or any danger whatsoever.  It’s a scavenger hunt.” His face brightened, and he grinned at John. 

“Maybe I didn’t bollocks this all up so horrendously after all.   If Molly went through this trouble to create this for me then…”  He looked back down at John who realized what he was saying and why Molly had called him a week before and asked him for a favour. 

“And you thought…”  he choked back a laugh.  “Mycroft  was helping her.  Bloody hell mate, you bollocked it up proper this time.”

“Let’s get to  the National Antiquities Museum .”  Sherlock said, turned back and began looking for a taxi.  “If Mycroft’s involved, I’m sure there’s a time limit, and I’d prefer to get there before time runs out.”

 

* * *

 

The National Antiquities Museum had a card that led them to Chinatown, a card there  sent them to 37 Hilltop Crescent.

Four other stops made all around London until finally, the final card sent them to the Old Operating Theater at St. Thomas Hospital. 

“Why here?”  John asked as they stepped into  the old wooden operating theater.  Sawdust bags still stood in the side, ready to be dumped onto the floors to soak up blood. 

“St. Thomas and St. Bart’s have a long standing argument over which hospital is the oldest.   It was something Molly, and I talked about one evening when we were in the lab.”  Sherlock answered as he walked towards the surgery table in the middle of the room and plucked up the crème envelope lying there.   “It’s still a bone of contention.”

Opening the envelope, he pulled out the card and looked at it.

 

**He has a girl he loved every Tuesday, her day off.- Kate Gale**

 

John read  the note in confusion.  “Well  this one is the most confusing of them all.  What’s  this one mean?”

Sherlock took a moment to reread  the note , a small smile blooming on his face.

“On the contrary John,  this one is the easiest.”

With a flourish, he spun  on his heels and left the theater, John hot  on his heels .  He didn’t speak until they  were outside and walking down the road.

“There is a place in London, a macabre little  museum.  I used to go there when I  was in Uni, before I discovered drugs and sometimes afterwards.  It’s called the Viktor Wynd Museum of Curiosities or better known in smaller groups as the Last Tuesday Society  Museum.  I mentioned it in passing once.”  He shook his head as he raised  a hand to catch  a taxi . 

“I once thought I observed everything, every twitch of a hand, a tell of an eyebrow, a stain of mustard on the collar of a shirt or way of standing that tells me what a person does for a living.” 

A taxi slid up to them and he opened the door, motioning John to climb in first, following after him.

“But Molly, Molly is so much more observant than I sometimes.  She can  hear one innocuous thing, one tiny mention of a miniscule statement and remember for years until the time is right to release that information.”

He shook his head.  “She truly is my better.  I don’t deserve her John and the way I cocked it up with her, I’ll be surprised if she wants anything to do with me.”

“Molly’s pretty forgiving when it comes to you, Sherlock, I’m sure she’s already for-

Sherlock’s baleful look towards him, left his words trailing off as the enormity of the look and the realization of what Sherlock had told him he’d done the previous week, left a sinking stone in his stomach. 

“Okay, let’s just hope that she’s forgiven just  a little bit.”  He suggested instead.  Sherlock’s attention turned back toward the window. 

“I can only hope that she would be so forgiving.”

The Viktor Wynd Museum of Curiosities  was a tiny little shop, curious in its own right.  John looked at it,  a little in horror as  the taxi stopped  in front of it  and Sherlock paid the driver.

“Good Lord,” he exclaimed.  “It looks like a Victorian chamber of Horrors.”

“It is,  a little .”  Sherlock agreed, climbing out of  the taxi .   They stood on the walk in front of the building and Sherlock seemed to take a deep breath, to gather himself, using his Belstaff as a shield in a way John hadn’t seen in a year or so.

Without a word, he strode forward and  walked in , John close on his heels.

The inside  was dark and creepy.  There  were skulls in a case as he  walked in .  Multiple versions of tiny animal skulls. 

Sherlock walked toward the front counter where an older man with a goatee sat reading a book.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”  He announced. “You have something for me?”

The man looked up over the lip of his book with an amused half grin. 

“Stairs to  the back .”  He said, pointing in the general direction of  the back of the store.  “Up there is where you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

John was watching the strange man, as well as looking at the shelf full of odd medical tools behind him before he realized Sherlock had walked off, heading towards the stairs in the back of the building.

Hurrying to catch up, he made it as Sherlock reached  the stairs and they began to climb.

At the top of the stairs was a small café/bar.  Mycroft sat in a chair, eyebrow cocked as they both appeared in the area.

“Ah, one minute, eighteen seconds early.  Congratulations brother mine, you caught on quicker than I suspected.”

“Happy birthday Sherlock.”  Anthea handed a glass of brandy to Mycroft, and then walked over to kiss his cheek. 

John shook his head, running a hand through his hair as he looked around at the decorations, cake, presents and the gathering of their friends around him. 

“How did you get all of this together?”  he asked looking around the group. 

“That  was all Molly, dear.”   Mrs. Hudson said.  “Well I suppose Mycroft helped too.”

Mycroft’s response  was merely a raised eyebrow and a silent sip of his drink.

“She set all of this up, the venue, getting the decorations and the cake, it’s from your favorite cake place dear,  getting all of us together ,”   Mrs. Hudson continued.  “Basically  getting all of us together at the same time. Forty isn’t something to be sneezed at, especially for you Sherlock..”

John pushed at Sherlock’s back, pushing him further into the café where everyone gathered around.  Someone shoved a drink into their hands and soon everyone  was talking and laughing.

But there  was something missing, a small hole that  was marring what would have normally been a not so dull party. 

Molly.

Molly wasn’t here and if she wasn’t here then there was no reason for the party, none at all. The absolute realization that he couldn’t do without her ran through his arteries, freezing his veins when, on the heels of that, the realization that he may have t, because he messed up so badly, destroyed what they had built pebble by excruciating pebble with on careless wave of his hand.

He couldn’t.  He couldn’t live without her.  This week not seeing her, not speaking to her had been disjointed, like he wasn’t sure what he needed to do. He needed her to have his balance. She was his balance.  She was his everything. 

He needed to find her.

“Do you know where Molly is?”  Sherlock asked Anthea, once he’d finally managed to make his way towards her,  and after scanning the room three times to make sure he hadn’t missed her.  She  was able to disappear when she wanted to.

Anthea’s look was all the answer he needed.  “She said she needed to run out to pick up one final thing and to stay here until you both arrived.   That was an hour ago.”

His face fell.  “She buggered off, didn’t she?”

“Well brother mine, it  was you who basically accused her of having an affair.”  Mycroft mused. Sherlock glared at him. 

“I’m well aware of my missteps-“

“Missteps?”

“Fine, my absolutely huge mistake. I need to fix it.”

“I’m not quite sure you can this time Sherlock,”  Mycroft answered. 

“But if you’d like  to try ,”  Anthea added, her phone out and typing quickly.  “You might want  to try Bart’s first.”

Sherlock grinned, leaning forward to kiss Anthea’s cheek.  “Thank you sister mine,” he whispered by her ear. “You’re by far the better half.”

“I  heard that.”

With another grin, Sherlock spun around.  “John, make sure the packages get home, will you?”

“Already on it,”  Anthea interrupted with a grin.

“Better half,”  Sherlock repeated, giving his brother a  look before racing down the steps and out of the museum leaving the protests of some of the party-goers behind him. 

He waved down a cab and climbed in.  He had one more clue to find.

 

* * *

 

The Morgue was empty when he hurried in. 

Striding in further, he looked around the entire area, peeking in and then walking into the empty office towards the back. 

Molly  was n’t here.  But her bag and coat  were which meant that somewhere in this hospital  was his final gift. The gift he wanted most for his birthday.

He  heard the doors to  the Morgue open, followed by the squeaking of the wheels on a table.  Turning around, he poked his head around the door and finally stepped out. 

Molly  was wheeling a body into  the Morgue and stopped, startled, when he stepped out fully from her office. 

“What are you doing here?”  she asked, hands leaving the table.

“I could ask the same thing.”  He asked, stepping towards her.

“Oh, I  was called in to work.  I left instructions on how everything  was supposed to go.”

“The party  was perfect,”  he said as he took another step.  “Well almost perfect. You  were n’t there.”

“Sherlock,”  she sighed, wrapping her arms around her as if warding off the chill, or someone else. “I set up your party.   You don’t need me there,  you don’t want me there, you made that pretty clear at my flat.”

“Molly,”  Crossing the rest of the way to her, he reached out and clasped her hands.  “I am a colossal fool. I say I can see everything and yet I truly see nothing.   I was wrong , dear God  I was wrong .   I was wrong and a fool and I don’t deserve you, never deserved you but I want  you just the same , I need  you just the same .  Please.  Molly.”

He dropped to a knee, looking up at her shocked face, stained with tears, this time, he hoped, for a completely different reason. 

“I’ve no hope, no guarantee.  With you I can’t see my future, there is no future without you.   But here, on my fortieth birthday, I entreat you, Molly, my only, my heart, my life, give me one last birthday present and agree you’ll be mine for the rest of our birthdays together.   Forgive me? Marry me?”

She stared down at him, breath catching in sobbing gasps in her throat. Her face  was red, wet with tears, her hands hot from where he  was holding them so tightly. 

“Yes.  Yes to both.”

Instead of standing, he pulled her down to him, falling backwards into a sitting position, pulling her onto his lap, holding her tightly to him, his face in her hair.  For the first time, he understood those ridiculous movies she watched when the lead male said the lead female completed him. 

She  was crying into  his shoulder , fingers clasp tight into the wool of his greatcoat. 

“I swear, for the rest of my life, I will do my best to never make you cry again.”  He swore. 

She sniffed with a choked laugh.  “Well, you’re doing a bang up job so far.”

A small chuckled of his own, he pulled away, pulling her away from  his shoulder .   Catching her face reverently in his hands, he leaned towards her, kissing her as if it  was their first time. 

“ I love you .”  He whispered. 

She smiled, reaching up to caress his face.  “ I love you too, you great lump.  Happy birthday.”

Returning her smile, he pulled her back towards his lips. 

“Most memorable birthday ever.”  He said before claiming her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in time for the ILYanniversary2019!
> 
> A huge thank you to Ukthxbye for betaing my piece and yelling at me to write, sending odd gifs and talking out plot points. Also, for messaging me with "so hubby gave me a prompt, you want it?"


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